Tantrum
by J.E.McCormickGal
Summary: Jack Frost takes out all of his pent up frustrating by brewing up a huge storm at the South Pole. A writing exercise I set for myself to practice descriptive writing.


**Tantrum**

_A/N: Our English class just did a lesson on descriptive language. At some point I got bored and started writing my own piece of lovely descriptive writing in my head. _

_I basically just used this as an excuse to do an exercise on descriptive writing. The objective I set myself was to describe the scene, character and actions as clearly as possible, with as many details as possible, and to capture and show the scene as a camera would- as an observer. I focused mainly on visual description, so maybe I will do another exercise on multi-sensual description as well._

_And so, here you go; Jack Frost throwing a paddy at the South Pole. Only it's a lot prettier than that when you read it xD_

_Enjoy!_

~~::.::~~

The landscape was wide, bare and barren, a huge expanse of frozen white. The winds swirled and howled and screamed, throwing snow at such a high speed that each delicate flake felt sharp and cutting.

At the centre of the storm stood a boy. For a boy, alone, in the middle of miles of endless white and the midst of a blizzard so thick it could barely be seen through, he was dressed surprisingly scarcely, and seemed almost calm. His tattered brown cloak whipped around in the high-speed winds, twisting and tugging and looking for all the world like it would soon break free and fly away. His dirty off-white shirt was threadbare in places, and too big for his scrawny frame, billowing out with each gust. His dark brown trousers were tattered at the bottom and bound to his calfs with old strips of material, and his feet were bare.

His eyes were lightly closed, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows pulling together in a mild frown and his pale lips turned down at the corners. His hair, a stark white that blended in with the raging snow around him, was tousled roughly into a birds nest. One pale hand clasped tightly to a branch of dark, twisted wood, hooked at the end like a shepard's crook, while the other clenched in a fist at his side.

Slowly, every muscle in the boy's body tensed, hunching his shoulders and making his knuckles bleach of what little colour they had as they tightened their grip. Then, in one fluid movement, the staff was raised and the base slammed into the snow-covered ground below, the action accompanied by a loud scream of frustration and anguish.

The wind whipped harder, its wailing seeming to try and outdo the boy's. Ice shot out across the surface of the fallen snow, tendrils of it managing to claim the ground 10 feet away, creating an almost snowflake shaped layer of ice around him. The boy's eyes opened, revealing them to be a clear, crystal blue, and with a silent command he was taken up by the wind.

He reached his hand out, feeling the current of air blow strongly between his fingers. He could feel the anger in the wind, but knew it would not hurt him; the anger was his own, and the wind simply felt it with him. Despite the strength it possessed, the wind was nothing but gentle as it took him higher. A wave of his staff brought the snow down thicker and faster than before, literally blinding, so nothing was visible but the furious blur of white. But that was exactly what he wanted, and he let his mind run blank, nothing but white before his eyes, the feeling of the wind blowing roughly through his hair and the snow buffeting his bare skin numbing in effect.

After a few minutes, the winds died down. The snowflakes that were falling were softer and slower, drifting gently down to their final resting place. The temperature rose just slightly, from sharp and bone-chilling to light and nipping. The wind slowly let the boy descend, until he was resting on the soft blanket of white powder that had settled, and caressed gently over his face. The boy chuckled quietly, again raising to let the air breeze between his fingers, almost like one would card their fingers through the fur of a faithful pet or the hair of a dear friend.

With a soft sigh, the boy let his eyes slip closed again, putting one arm to rest over his stomach, the other hugging the staff tenderly at his side. His breathing evened, the rise and fall of his chest steady and regular, as he let the cold and the wind and the snow lull him to sleep.

~~::.::~~

_A/N: And there you have it; the long, overly-descriptive way of showing Jack Frost having a hissy-fit xD_

_I'm quite glad I got through without including any sort of speech. I didn't say his name at any point, mainly because had you been an observer to the scene (that's how my teacher told us to do it; write like you are the camera capturing the scene) that information wouldn't have been given to you. So, he is just 'the boy', but hopefully you know who I'm talking about._

_Uh, reviews and feedback is greatly appreciated, mainly as this was a writing exercise I gave myself to do, and I'd like to know if I succeeded, or maybe went overboard, or what._


End file.
